Page 59 of Matteo

"Belong?" I snort, despite the fear coiling in my gut. "Did you just say that I belong to you?"

"Exactly." He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. "You didn't think I did everything I did for you for no reason? Come on, El, you’re not that stupid, are you?"

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing Matteo's name. "I don't understand. Why? I thought you were my friend?"

"Friend, yes." He shrugs, dismissing my confusion like it's nothing. "But I also own you. I’ve owned you longer than you think."

Panic claws at me, a feral beast trapped in a cage. This is all wrong. Patrick—the one I love, the one I trusted—now claims me like I'm property. A possession.

"Where is Matteo?" The words scrape out, raw and desperate.

"Dead," he says, casual as if discussing the weather, indifferent to the way my world crumbles.

"And Aela? Where is she?" My voice trembles; my world narrows to the pounding in my head.

"In London. She doesn't know about any of this." He watches me, gauging my reaction.

A spike of pain shoots from my leg to my hip as I attempt to sit up, a scream strangled in my throat. "Fuck," I gasp out. Childbirth was a fucking breeze compared to this agony.

"Easy, El." Patrick's voice holds no comfort, only a command to submit.

The pain's a bitch, gnawing at my insides, making every breath a battle. I shift, trying to find some fraction of relief, but Patrick's hand is firm on my shoulder.

"Stop moving you silly lass; you broke your leg and cracked a few ribs," he snarls, shoving me back against the pillows. His eyes never leave the screen of his phone, like I'm just another item on his bloody to-do list. "The doctor will be here in five minutes to give you some more painkillers. Just lay down and be patient; we can’t fly till we get your bones set."

My gaze drifts, heavy and half-lidded, and lands on the other man in the room—the one I've ignored until now. It clicks. Tino, from Matteo's office, with that slick grin and shark eyes. He stands there, leering, like he’s got secrets too dark for daylight.

"Tino?" My voice cracks, sounding foreign even to myself.

"Was wondering if you remembered my handsome face," he beams, smug satisfaction oozing from every syllable.

His face might be chiseled from stone, but it’s his loyalty to Enzo that's unbreakable—or so I thought. "Don't youwork for Enzo?" The frown etches deeper into my forehead, confusion mixing with the throbbing ache of betrayal.

"Yes," he says, his smirk stretching wider, baring teeth like a predator scenting blood.

Patrick's patience snaps like a frayed rope. "Shut up, you two." He barks the order, authority radiating from him with the ease of a man used to being obeyed. "Tino, go see what’s taking the doctor so long; I need this leg dealt with so I can go home."

"Right away, boss," Tino mutters, spinning on his heel and striding out.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Matteo Ricci

Beeping. That incessant beeping drills into my skull like a jackhammer, shattering the void I’ve been lost in. Eyelids weigh a ton each, refusing to cooperate. Every muscle screams in protest, rebellion against movement.

“He’s waking up,” a voice, soft and unfamiliar, slices through the fog wrapping around my consciousness.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, boss," another, this one gruff and edged with concern, from the other side.

Confusion reigns in my head. My mind's a scrambled mess, trying to piece together the fragmented snapshots that are my last memories. The weight on my chest is crushing—physical and mental—a heavy, leaden blanket smothering me.

"Princess..." It's all I can manage, a croak more desperate than audible. My tongue feels swollen, dry as the barren outback that stretches across this godforsaken continent.

"Boss," the urgent tone from my right snaps at me, demanding. "Boss, you need to wake up, mate."

Gritting my teeth, I fight against the heaviness of my own body, forcing my eyes open to a slit. Blurred shapes swim into view, slowly sharpening into focus. The stark, sterile walls of the makeshift hospital room claw at my senses. Cold, hard reality bites down. Warehouse... our warehouse. The place where we patch up bullet wounds and broken bones away from prying eyes.

"Princess!" I try for a shout, but it's nothing more than a ragged whisper, a weak call that wouldn't scare a rat. She should be here. Where the hell is she? Panic claws up my throat, a wild animal caged in my ribcage. Fear isn't something I'm accustomed to, an unwelcome stranger in my house of power and control. But it's there now, gnawing at my insides like a feral beast.

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